Spiral

by Andy Remic

  ‘Two hours. I have just a few more things to take care of.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  Carter met Natasha’s look and their gazes locked; he fell headlong into those beautiful, oval brown depths. He licked his lips slowly and could still taste salt. And the question at the front of his mind was ...

  Can I trust her?

  Feuchter’s words returned to him.

  She’s one of us .

  But she had helped him get this far still alive. Without her he would be dead... And since Rub al’Khali Carter had been playing his cards much more closely to his chest - revealing nothing ... the perfect poker player... the perfect gamesman.

  Natasha smiled slowly.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, sniffing, her eyes unreadable. ‘I don’t need to know the information and I understand that it could compromise you, yeah? Just tell me where you want to meet us afterwards.’

  Carter nodded at Natasha and turned, gathering his equipment together. He glanced at Jessica. ‘I’ll leave the schematics disk here. I think it will be safer. If this whole gig is a trap, I wouldn’t like to blunder into their lair with the very fucking item they obviously want from me. If Gol really is here in LA then the schematics could make a difference between his life and death ... and I wouldn’t like to piss that away.’

  Jessica nodded.

  Carter took the disk, a tiny silver platter, for a moment. He brought it up to his face and stared hard. ‘Hope you’re worth it, hope those fuckers need you more than they need me dead,’ he muttered. Then he dropped the disk into Jessica’s hand and headed for the door.

  The Corvette rumbled to a halt in a deserted back alley. A recent fire had scarred most of the narrow passageway and blackened, cracked windows stared out at Carter. Papers blew across his path as the car door opened and Carter’s boots touched the hot pavement under a bleached sun. He stood, stretched his back, and looked warily about: a predator, scanning his new territory, assimilating the piss-stink of markers, alert and ready for action. Carter reached back into the car, slipping various things into his trouser pockets and the pockets of his plain black waist-length jacket.

  Carter buttoned up the jacket, checked his now cleanshaven features in the Corvette’s cracked wing mirror, then smiled into the eyes of his own reflection. It was a strong smile. A convincing smile. It would have to be, to get him past the reception of the hotel where the meet was to take place: the Beverly Hills Hilton, recent survivor of atomic terrorism.

  Carter walked, hands in his pockets, clearing his mind for the meeting to come. He would have to be sharp; but then, if Gol wasn’t there and it was nothing more than a set-up, Gol would be conspicuous by his absence and the bad gig would be pretty easy to spot - and pretty quick to go down.

  Moving out onto the sidewalk, Carter walked swiftly. His gaze was alert, watching, gauging the few people he passed on foot, searching for weapons and bad intent. His eager scrutiny checked every car that purred down the scorched tree-lined sidewalk of South El Camino Drive, searching interiors, looking for anything suspicious, no matter how small. Reaching the corner of El Camino and Wilshire Boulevard, Carter halted again, looking around. He turned left and began to walk once more, again scanning the surroundings - the scarred fronts of buildings, the people, the battered cars, the burned trees. As he closed on the entrance to the Beverly Hills Hilton he slowed to an amble, searching for anything suspicious.

  If they’re here, he thought, if they’re watching, then I won’t see them. They will see me; but they will be ghosts.

  Invisible.

  He halted, leaning against a low wall and pulling free a packet of Camel cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled, enjoying the sensation and buzz of the nicotine. Shit, he thought, it’s been too long, my little buddies. Far too long.

  Ahh, the joys of civilisation.

  The quiet cigarette allowed him time to examine his surroundings with a careful and practised eye. There were several spots on and in nearby buildings that would be fine for snipers; he could see no activity, but then, that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  Carter thought back to Africa.

  Gol, running, the long jump out over the abyss ...

  The unheard scream, legs treading nothing but air ...

  The long dive towards the river far far far below ...

  Despite his own pain and exhaustion at the time, he still remembered the one word that had leaped unbidden to his mind ... that came tumbling out of the bright red vaults of agony that had consumed him...

  Dead.

  There was no way that Gol could have survived that fall.

  But then, Carter had also left him to die back in Prague; left him bleeding heavily on the road with the armed police only minutes away. Shot him to keep him alive ... and Gol had survived that bad shit, escaped and survived like the tough cockroach bastard he was.

  Carter breathed out a plume of smoke. Laughter echoed from further down the sidewalk and Carter’s head snapped in that direction. He relaxed. Took another drag. Breathed deeply, calming his suddenly racing heart.

  Analysis, he thought.

  He closed his eyes for a moment; the frequent headaches he had been experiencing were thankfully absent; the stitches in his side were holding well and the pain there was nothing more than a dull throb thanks to an injection of pethidine. His nose which he had reset in the hotel room was throbbing with an annoying wave of soreness and the discomfort of his broken finger -freshly strapped - and cracked ribs were nothing more than dull aches that he had come to call his own. The pain was now integral to his existence, a part of him, unchallenged.

  He finished the cigarette and flicked the butt into the bushes behind him.

  Let’s do it, he thought, checking his watch.

  He walked up the long, winding drive, trying hard not to focus exclusively on the impressive but battered building, all the time scanning for anything suspicious as he neared the large turning circle in front of the glass-walled and steel-barred reception area. He glanced right, up at the six-storey building and the balconies that went round the exterior of each floor.

  Carter’s plan was simple. Ask for information at the Hilton reception desk, nicely at first... or with Mr 9mm as a bit of heavy reinforcement. He was sure events would unfold from there.

  He nodded to the bellboy, climbed the low marble steps that ascended between lofty thick white pillars and entered the plush plant-littered foyer with catlike wariness. His gaze swivelled from left to right. Men reading newspapers, a few women apparently waiting for people, one talking animatedly on a mobile. Carter pressed the reassuring bulk of the Browning beneath his jacket and trod the plush carpets towards the reception desk and the beautiful beaming brunette with her shining eyes.

  ‘Good evening, sir. How may I help?’

  Carter smiled his winning smile as his eyes used the reflecting surfaces of glass, brass and polished marble to check events behind him. Then he said, ‘Hi. I have a friend staying here by the name of Mr Gol. Said he would leave a message for me at reception about a meeting we have? My name is Carter.’

  ‘Let me check, sir.’

  The brunette turned to the pigeon-holes behind the desk. Carter leaned his elbows on the elegantly carved cherrywood surface, gaze scanning the people in the lobby. He watched a man with a full beard enter, carrying a Nike holdall. Carter felt himself tense, and unbuttoned his jacket as the man with the holdall greeted a tall heavy-set man reading a newspaper. They left the lobby together.

  ‘Yes, there is an envelope for a Mr Carter.’

  Carter took the white A5 envelope. He tore open the flap with his thumb; there was a single slip of paper inside. It read:

  ROOM 215. I’LL BE WAITING.

  It was signed ‘Gol’. The handwriting was Gol’s and so was the signature. Carter glanced around once more, then put the slip into his pocket.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Can you direct me to room 215?’

  ‘Take the elevator to the second floor
. Straight ahead and to the right.’

  ‘Thank you again.’ He beamed at her and walked towards the elevator, his hand in his pocket curling around an HPG. The elevator door closed and Carter found himself staring at his own reflection in polished chrome. He blinked lazily, a predator, and ignored the urge to light another cigarette.

  Alone, he thought.

  The way I like it.

  He pulled free the HPG and stared at the small reflective ball. He pulled the pin and held down the trigger, then cupped the globe in his hand thoughtfully, testing the weight. The HPG was hidden against his palm.

  He carefully put the pin in his pocket and removed his battered Browning Hi-Power as the elevator doors slid open, revealing a bright corridor with plush carpeting and tasteful wood panelling and decor. Carter stepped out onto the thick carpet, his boots sinking into the pile.

  ‘Very cosy,’ he muttered. He checked left and right. Moved forward.

  The hotel seemed quiet. Carter walked to room 215 and halted to one side of the door. He eyed the brass numbers suspiciously as something inside him screamed:

  This is wrong, this is all wrong, Gol is dead, this is a trap ...

  Who wanted him dead?

  Durell? The Nex?

  There were easier ways to kill him than this. But then, now he had the QIII schematics with which to do a little bargaining ...

  He raised his fist. Glanced left and right.

  Rapped on the door and took a step back.

  ‘Come in,’ came a clear, melodious, powerful voice.

  Carter blinked. He licked his lips and realised that there was salt there. He realised too that his hand was slippery around the stocky bulk of the Browning. He holstered the Browning and wiped his hand on his trousers. He smiled nastily. Depressing the handle, Carter nudged the door open and drew the gun once more.

  Gentle laughter came from inside the room. ‘Come on in, Carter. There’s no gun here waiting to blow your head off. No terrible plan of entrapment to ensnare you.’

  Carter peered around the door frame. Gol was sitting in a chair by the window, a glass of brandy by one hand, a cigarette in his other. Carter checked the corridor, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Gol, but I thought you might be kinda dead.’

  Gol turned then, and stood. He beamed warmly at Carter, and raised his glass, sipping at the brandy, his eyes on the Browning. ‘Always a cautious man, eh, my friend? Although I do quite understand your concern ... if our situations had been reversed, then I too would think it a trap.’

  He moved, walking across the room to stare out of the window.

  Carter moved forward suspiciously, all senses alert, Browning muzzle searching uneasily. When he was satisfied that they were alone in the room, he fixed his stare back on Gol, who had turned, his dark-eyed gaze settling on Carter.

  Gol smiled warmly. He ran a hand through his greying hair.

  ‘I know you will find it hard to believe, but I was rescued. By Spiral; they desperately wanted the schematics I was carrying but the irony was that in rescuing me, they forced me to drop that disk - and it became lost, leaving Feuchter with the only working processor in existence. Spiral were very precise - they had tracked me, were waiting when I took that leap of fucking faith. They plucked me from the sky like a fly being zapped.’

  Carter looked him up and down. The man’s beard was a touch shorter, neatly trimmed; everything else about Gol was exactly how Carter remembered him. Carter grinned wryly.

  ‘You do look pretty good for a dead man.’ He lowered the Browning. ‘Natasha will be thrilled.’

  ‘Ahh, my sweet little Natasha! I thought you might bring her along, but then - ah yes. A trap. You thought me dead, hah! Had you no faith in your old Spiral buddy - even though you left me for dead in Prague ...’ Gol’s eyes twinkled as he took a step closer. ‘But then, we won’t go over that old ground again, eh?’

  Carter smiled, holding Gol’s dark gaze. ‘How about a drink? You’re there enjoying that brandy without offering me any? And after all the shit I’ve been taking from Natasha recently ...’

  ‘Yes, I heard about your exploits. Spiral_F has been following your progress with interest - although, it must be said, always a few steps behind you. Is that rogue Langan behaving himself?’

  ‘He’s doing fine.’ Carter pocketed the Browning but kept the HPG hidden. He accepted the brandy and took a sip.

  Gol’s gaze lingered on the glass and Carter forced himself not to frown as the other man turned to stare out of the window once more. Something is wrong, screamed Carter’s brain. He carefully spat the brandy back into the glass ...

  Gol turned again, a swift movement, a small black gun now in his large hand. ‘I’m sorry, Carter,’ he said. ‘Really sorry.’

  CHAPTER 22

  THE DARK SIDE OF THE SOUL

  Jam, Nicky, Slater and The Priest stood beside the two Chinook Ch-47s on the Kamus-5 landing yard, gazing inside the holds of the battered rainswept aircraft.

  ‘They’re ferrying crates,’ said Jam quietly.

  ‘Yes, but look at this,’ said The Priest, leaping up into the back and kicking free a narrow crate panel. Nestling within straw were large shells, gleaming menacingly under the weak light.

  ‘Big big bullets,’ said Slater.

  ‘Shells,’ corrected Nicky.

  ‘These,’ said The Priest, ‘are 12.5cm-calibre rounds.’ He stared hard at the assembled DemolSquad. They looked from his fevered eyes to the shells, then back to his eyes.

  Jam shrugged. ‘You’re going to have to enlighten us.’

  ‘Warships use them,’ said The Priest softly. ‘In their large deck-mounted guns. They are devastating weapons.’

  ‘So we’re looking for a warship now?’

  ‘They have abandoned this base,’ said The Priest softly. ‘What better position to operate from? If you have a large ship, filled with supplies - you are totally mobile. Now, in the briefing room here at Kamus I found maps and charts; most were of the Barents Sea and the Arctic Ocean.’

  ‘That’s a lot of fucking sea,’ said Jam.

  The Priest nodded. ‘Yes, I agree, but did you notice the huge drums of oil in the storeroom? There were markings on the floor, suggesting that many have been recently removed. The drums were inscribed with a sales originator trademark: Kastevsky Co.’

  ‘Russian?’

  ‘Yes. The Kastevsky Co. operates out of Ostrov Vaygach covering the Barents Sea and Karskoye More. Spiral have always used them for oil when they’ve been operating in that region.’

  ‘It gives us a starting point,’ said Slater.

  ‘I will send the remaining TacSquads to sweep the area; it is the strongest lead we have. We need to gather the remaining DemolSquads together ready for when the new threat is identified. Only then will we be in a position to do something about this Nex invasion.’

  Jam nodded, enjoying his cigarette. ‘I have an idea. If you are right and we are looking for a ship to link with these Spiral traitors, then we will need weaponry. Big weaponry. We can coordinate from here - Slater and Nicky can call the DemolSquads to the Kamus via the ECubes. This place has fuel, weapons - it is the perfect place from which to launch an offensive. You can locate the enemy and pinpoint their exact position; and I ...’

  ‘Yes? What skive have you dreamed up for yourself this time, Jam?’

  Jam grinned.

  ‘I have to see a man about a bomb.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Carter,’ said Gol. ‘Really sorry.’

  Carter grinned nastily, the brandy glass in his hand, the Browning in his pocket.

  Stupid, he thought. Guard down ...

  Stupid.

  ‘So, you alive, or dead, or what? The Nex get to you?’ Gol shook his head sadly. ‘It’s a lot more complicated than that, Mr Carter. A lot more complicated than you could ever believe. Now, I believe that you are carrying the QIII processor schematics. I would like them, please. They are ours. They b
elong to us and should have died in Rub al’Khali, just like you.’

  Carter allowed himself to frown.

  ‘You know when we worked together, out of Egypt. Do you remember the night in Luxor? When we were surrounded by Arabs with machine guns, just a veranda and the sea below us, the dark waves crashing against the shores at the height of the storm? You remember that?’

  Gol nodded; but it was there. A flash across his face. A moment of...

  Confusion.

  ‘You mean ... what we called the Fifth Night?’

  Carter nodded. ‘Gol, tell me what you said to me before we charged at those fuckers. Tell me the exact words you spoke to fill me with confidence on that dark night when we both thought that we would die.’

  ‘I have no time for this, Carter. Give me the fucking schematics.’

  ‘You are not Gol.’

  Gol smiled then, a flash of white teeth through his grey beard. ‘Shit, Carter, you have me there. So fucking what? I am Gol - a part of Gol; but you cannot understand. I have been instructed not to kill you; there are a variety of people who would like a little ... shall we say chat. But first you must give me the schematics you hold in your hands.’

  Carter saw Gol’s - or the imitation Gol’s - finger tighten a little on the trigger. Taking up the slack, the taut; getting ready to reel in the line with the big flapping fish struggling on the end...

  Carter smiled.

  He uncurled his right hand to reveal the HPG.

  ‘Surprise, fucker,’ said Carter dryly.

  Carter threw the HPG and saw Gol’s eyes go suddenly wide, his mouth open in a silent ‘Fuck!’

  Reflexes took over; there was no thought. The large man reached up to catch the HPG—

  His gun muzzle moved.

  Carter’s Browning was out and he was firing even as he dived for the bathroom. He rolled across the thick carpet as the Browning’s bullets tore into the wall and then the window, which shattered with a crash of exploding glass ...

  Gol was running.

  Carter aimed the Browning from the bathroom—

  Just as the HPG detonated.